Timely Regression
by gveret
Summary: Regina and Gold share a drink and an honest conversation about their thoughts and feelings. Sort of.


The air is crackling with power, like a strange electric charge that builds with friction and has no place to go. It's been like this for a while; a long while; far too long a while to remain stable. Usually flavorless, undetectable, it has thickened, clinging to every molecule and rattling covalent bonds. She can taste it on the tip of her tongue, like cinnamon or pollution or other persistent, invasive things. It chafes against her skin, itches at her fingertips, coaxes her senses into overdrive and leaves her raw and trembling.

It's all _his_ fault, of course – what isn't, nowadays? – It's all his fault for bringing magic back, and the devil knows what for. She was doing fine, just fine, for twenty-eight years, and not a single glance at any book written in ink that's anything but static, and not a single sniff at any ingredient that can't be found in a local convenience store.

But now the magic is back, pervasive, untapped, hammering at her sinuses and tearing at her self-control, and it is all. _His_. Goddam. _Fault_.

Regina doesn't consider herself a _reasonable_ person. She is vindictive and cruel and petty and generally not someone you'd want to cross, and she damn well likes it that way. But even if she _were_ a reasonable person, she's fairly certain she'd still be feeling intensely and personally outraged.

Naturally, since heart-crushing rampages are currently slightly off the table, the only thing to do is vent.

.

The shop is _Closed_, says the sign, and she briefly wonders why he still bothers with it at all, seeing as no one has ever paid it the least bit of attention, never mind the fact that the people who come here rarely have antique shopping in mind to begin with. She steps in without bothering to knock, and the entry bell does its job by scolding her in a melodious manner.

Gold is, as usual, standing with his back to the door and partially obscured by oddly-shaped shadows, apparently engaged in one mysterious activity or another.

"I want you to do some magic," Regina informs him with all appropriate arrogance. "Please."

He turns to her with an elegant twirl, his head tilted infuriatingly to the side like the preening little lizard he is.

"Why," he croons, "if it isn't my most favorite of all favorite evil queens, here to beg a favor and being so polite about it already."

His accent catches on all of the R's. She is sure he's doing it on purpose.

"I _am_ being polite," she replies impatiently. "So cut the crap and make me a deal."

"Of course, dearie. But first," he says and sweeps his arm in a generous gesture, "a _curtsey_."

Regina takes a few steps towards him so he can see the utter lack of mortification in her eyes. "Is that your price?" she asks.

"Oh, no, no, no," says Gold. For some incomprehensibly obnoxious reason, he feels the need to punctuate every _no_ with a wave of his cane. As if hand gestures aren't redundant enough. "But you can consider it part of the haggling process. Butter me up a little, will you?"

"I'm wearing pants, you dolt."

"That you are."

He snaps his fingers and the black immediately drains out of Regina's suit as the buttons melt and the pant legs flow, and in a blink she finds herself wreathed in an impossibly garish mass of baby blue lace and little pink ribbons.

"Consider that a freebie," Mr. Gold says on the tail end of a snort. He doesn't really giggle like he used to anymore. "It's just a little trick I picked up from a certain… godparent."

Regina scowls. "You are a terrible person," she says with all of her leftover venom, and dips into the most dignified curtsey a person wearing a big, fluffy, pastel-colored cream cake could possibly manage.

Gold nods his gentlemanly acknowledgement. "Thank you," he says graciously. "What may I do for you, then?"

"I want you to do some magic," she repeats.

"Ooh, we're being tediously specific today, aren't we? I'm not sure I can follow such strict instructions, dearie. I'm a free spirit, you know."

"Stop being such a petulant child," she scolds. "I'll add some obtusely worded clauses for you to poke creative loopholes in if it that's what it takes to shut you up."

"That sounds delightful. Now if you could just tell me exactly _what_ the thing I'm authorized to poke loopholes in is, that would be even lovelier," he says.

"It isn't complex, Gold. Please try to keep up. I need you. To do. Some. Magic." She mimes her words in the most patronizing way she can manage. The word _magic_ is accompanied by jazz hands. "This suffocating magic reserve needs to be depleted, the sooner the better."

"Suffocating magic reserve, you say?" Gold says, disregarding her condescension. "Having trouble abstaining, then, are we?" he continues, his smile sharpening. "Sniffing the empty vodka bottle? Skulking around your old dealer's favorite tree? Stealing suspicious plastic bags from unsuspecting high school students' lockers? My, my, Regina, and here I thought you were stronger than this."

"It's everywhere. Everywhere!" she says, her voice an octave higher than she'd like. He knows her buttons too well, the greasy-haired imbecile. "Wherever I go, I can feel it. Grasping, needling, _begging_ me to give it an outlet. I feel like a living lightning rod."

She runs a hand through her hair. Gold is tapping his cane against the toe of his shoe. It makes a muffled sound that's both annoying and strangely soothing. "You're a taller rod, Gold," she says finally. "And I know how you enjoy playing with lightning."

Gold laughs shortly and stops tapping. "A _taller rod_, am I? Keep up the flattery, Regina, and you might just manage to hurt my feelings."

"I am asking you to do some magic, Gold. Any magic. To whomever, for whatever reason. I might as well be offering Henry a homemade curse-free cinnamon roll. Why are you being so difficult about this?"

"Two reasons," he replies cheerfully and holds up two long, spindly fingers. "One: it's more fun that way."

Regina glares and Gold smiles.

"Two: I simply can't help you." He wraps his fingers back around his cane and taps it once with nearly-inaudible finality. "My sincerest apologies."

"What the hell are you talking about?" she demands. "You can't help me? Why?"

He ignores her and pulls two old-fashioned wooden stools in front of a glass counter showcasing a bunch of needlessly intricate wristwatches.

"Have a drink with me?"

Without waiting for a reply, he conjures an unopened bottle of brandy, opens it, and pours it into two mismatched coffee cups. He then sits down with his back to her and motions towards the other seat.

Regina sighs and joins him at the improvised bar. It takes her three tries to successfully maneuver the stupid dress onto the goddam chair. Gold hands her the cup with the picture of a cat dressed in pink ruffles on it.

"This had better be the most expensive drink you've got in here," she grumbles.

"Oh, absolutely not," he smoothly replies. "This is just something I got from the supermarket for a little after-dinner snack. I save the good stuff for _important_ visitors."

"You're such a charmer, aren't you. It's a real wonder you're single." She swallows a mouthful of the brandy and glances at Gold. "Or aren't you? How are things going with the intrepid little librarian?"

He takes a sip from his own cup and makes a face. "This is terrible, terrible brandy," he says. "How did you manage to convince me to drink this swill?"

"Changing the subject," says Regina. "How subtle. It must mean everything is going wonderfully. Should I be expecting little blue-eyed, gold-sprinkled, hopelessly idealistic pups to start popping up all over the place? How do these things even work with you, anyway? Do you have to plant an acorn beneath a dying willow tree at midnight during a full moon, or would a plastic cup and a racy magazine suffice?"

"You know what, I'm not sure. We never did get any sex education in Fairytale Land. How lucky for me that I have the single most childless woman I know right here with me." He lifts his cup in salute. "So tell me, Regina, how _does_ a soulless bastard go about becoming a real mommy?"

"Go to hell," she snarls.

"Ah, let's not bring religion into this. We're dealing with such sensitive subject matter already."

"Fine," she says and refills her mug. "I have no interest in your romantic melodrama anyway. Let's just talk about whatever you wanted to talk about and get this excruciating bout of socializing over with."

"Very well, then," says Gold. "Tell me about Henry."

She regards him coolly. She's not about to allow his smugness to seem justified. "Gladly," she replies. "He's doing very well."

"Without you," he notes mildly.

Regina grits her teeth. "With his other mom."

"With his _real_ mom."

"It was his choice."

"And he chose _her_ over _you_."

"Yes," she snaps. "Yes, he did. He chose _her_, and now he's happy. The happiest he's ever been. And that's the way it should be."

"No," insists the stubborn bastard. "He's supposed to be happy with _you_. _That's_ the way it should be."

Regina slams her pink kitty mug on the glass countertop. Both remain unfortunately unbroken.

"Is it a new hobby of yours, stating the painfully obvious?" she politely inquires. "Of _course_ that's the way it should be. I'm his _mother_. I'm the one who chose him, the one who raised him, the one who didn't sleep all the way through a single night for two years when he was teething and getting hungry at two in the morning and going through reversed sleep cycles. I'm the one who bought every single parenting book that could be found in Storybrooke or ordered from eBay, the one who burped him, changed him, fretted over common colds, stayed up all night humming stupid lullabies I didn't even know the words to because he had nightmares and didn't want to be _alone_."

"Was there a point in there somewhere?" Gold interjects.

She ignores him completely. "But I'm not a _good_ mother," she continues. "I never have been. And Henry deserves better. So yes, he chose Emma over me, and it makes me really want to kill her and you and sometimes myself. But he is happy, he's _happy_, and I would never wish to change that. Not for anything. Not even for the chance to be his only mom again."

"That," says Mr. Gold and empties his coffee-less coffee cup, "is a very uncharacteristically noble sentiment, Regina. You must be regressing."

"I love him," she murmurs, trailing a fingertip over the rim of her cup and not producing any beautifully haunting sounds at all. "More than anything. More than I'd ever loved Daniel."

Gold curls his fingers tightly around his own cup, even though there's no brandy left in it to warm.

He says, "I know."

Regina sighs. "Then fucking help me, goddammit," she says, in entirely the wrong tone for demands.

Gold hold up a perfectly ordinary hand and waggles perfectly ordinary fingers. Nothing remotely extraordinary happens. "I'm not the Dark One anymore, Regina," he says quietly.

"I know that," she replies. "But what difference does it make, really? This world may not have the same rules or the same lore, but gravity is gravity and yeast is yeast and magic is magic. You're a smart guy, you can figure it out. Make me a magical flying sweet bun."

Gold smiles softly. "Your soul for a sweet bun. There's probably something vaguely poetic about that."

"Let's not get cocky here, shall we? I've already pawned off my soul for red lentil soup. You can have my favorite pinky ring, though."

"As tempting as that is – which is very, very much, of course – I'm afraid, again, I would have to decline."

Regina bangs her hideous cup against the counter again. "Are you doing this just to torture me?" she asks.

"No," says Gold. "That simply happens to be a particularly pleasant by-product."

"Then what's this about? What's your angle on this?"

"I suppose for now it shall simply have to remain a mystery."

Regina stares into her empty cup. Unfortunately, unlike coffee, brandy leaves no dregs to analyze. Well, she was never very good with divination, anyway. There were always grander, flashier, more interesting things to waste her energy on.

The many antique clocks mounted on walls and scattered across junk-laden tables simultaneously burst into chiming, cooing or clanging celebration of the hour six. Regina has no idea what possible reason anyone could have for keeping so many goddam cuckoo clocks properly wound up and functional. If the grating of nerves is the goal, surely one of the infernal devices would suffice, she thinks.

And suddenly, it clicks.

"You're saving it, aren't you," she states, a decided lack of a question mark in her voice. "You want the magic to remain stagnant, because you're saving it for later."

Gold says nothing.

Regina turns to look at him. His face is perfectly blank.

"I'm right, aren't I?" she marvels. "You have something planned. Something big. The thing this was all about? The curse, the prophesy, everything?"

He doesn't chuckle, or even smile. No sarcastic remark, no dismissive raise of an eyebrow.

"The man with no motive, finally showing his hand." She laughs dryly. "And of course I'm the one who has to suffer for it. Terrific."

"I know what it's like to go through withdrawal, Regina," he tells her. "It gets better. Sometimes."

"And aren't your platitudes just _golden_." She laughs some more, and Gold grimaces.

"Try to cut down on the cringe-worthy puns, please. Have some common decency."

"Ha!" she barks. "Common decency. That's a good one. You're a real hoot today, aren't you."

"Regina –"

"I'm going insane, Gold," she cuts him off. "All this unharnessed power just hanging in the air, and I can't shape it, I can't even whisper it, and it _hurts_. This promise… it's the one thing I can actually do for Henry, and it feels like I might just lose myself in the process."

Gold gets up, taking his coffee cup with him and turning away from her. It seems he is incapable of saying important things and being comfortably seated at the same time, the drama queen.

"Did you know Storybrooke has an animal shelter?" he asks her, a definite bounce in his voice. Unnecessary theatrics never fail to make him happy. She knows because she is exactly the same.

"I… didn't," she replies, cautiously. "Why?"

"That's odd. Weren't you the mayor at one point? I could've sworn…"

"Get to the point, Mr. Gold."

He turns back to face her, twirling the cup in his hand into a granola bar. "They need volunteers," he says. "Every day that passes guileless puppies are dying from lack of a child's sincere laughter." He peels back the wrapper. Regina notes there's an actual brand name on it. "Or something to that effect."

"You aren't serious."

"Of course not. Am I ever?" He takes a bite. "Fortunately, earnestness isn't a requirement. Neither are pure intentions."

"I don't follow."

"Please try. It isn't complex; even you should be able to understand. You. Me. Cute puppies in need of a bubble bath. Let's do something nice in a self-serving way, shall we?"

"In what way would washing month-old grime off of street dogs serve me, exactly?"

"Don't be so narrow-minded. The most efficient scam is one where nobody gets hurt, you know. Happy people tend not to look too closely for ulterior motives. And if Henry happens to be one of those rare children who possess an inexplicable soft spot for cute and fuzzy animals, well, maybe you'll have finally found a reason for him to waste his time on you."

"God, I hate you."

"You needn't call me God, dearie. Your deferential tone conveys your reverence well enough."

Regina shakes her head and stands up, pushing her mug to the floor with a negligent flick. "Seven o'clock tomorrow morning, you car-less jerk," she tells Gold. "I'm picking you up. If I find you in bed with that doe-eyed girlfriend of yours, I'm dragging you out by your ugly underwear."

"Of course, m'lady. How can I object when you're being so reasonable." He has the grace not to seem completely unintimidated.

Regina has to walk sideways to squeeze the incredible girth of her clown's nightmare of a dress through the door. The damn entry bell keeps chiming atmospherically.

"You owe me a pantsuit," she throws behind her at a tight-lipped Gold, who's clearly shaking with barely-contained laughter. "And it had better be monochromatic."

.

Back home with the too large kitchen and the too many chairs and the too empty liquor cabinet, the headache returns. It seems to complement silence quite well.

Regina strips out of the frilly monstrosity Gold bestowed upon her and throws it unceremoniously into the fireplace. It was an interesting glimpse into the horrifying contents of his twisted psyche (and thank God he never pursued a career in fashion, or really anything that involves widespread public exposure), but even that insight isn't reason enough to allow it to taint this world with its continued existence. She pours some beer from the fridge into an elegant wineglass and slumps on the couch. Tomorrow she is going to do fucking volunteer work. Might as well cultivate a decent hangover in advance.

Honestly, she has no need for bad brandy or arrogant assholes or pathetic little puppies. She doesn't even _like_ any of those things. But, she supposes, they do make for surprisingly effective distractions sometimes.


End file.
